世纪文学经典:《百年孤独》第6章Part 4

úrsula decreed that the wake would be in her house. Father Nicanor was against a religious ceremony and burial in consecrated ground. úrsula stood up to him. "In a way that neither you nor I can understand, that man was a saint," she said. "So I am going to bury him, against your wishes, beside Melquíades' grave." She did it with the support of the whole town and with a magnificent funeral. Amaranta did not leave her bedroom. From her bed she heard úrsula's weeping, the steps and whispers of the multitude that invaded the house, the wailing of the mourners, and then a deep silence that smelled of trampled flowers. For a long time she kept on smelling Pietro Crespi's lavender breath at dusk, but she had the strength not to succumb to delirium. úrsula abandoned her. She did not even raise her eyes to pity her on the afternoon when Amaranta went into the kitchen and put her hand into the coals of the stove until it hurt her so much that she felt no more pain but instead smelled the pestilence of her own singed flesh. It was a stupid cure for her remorse. For several days she went about the house with her hand in a pot of egg whites, and when the burns healed it appeared as if the whites had also scarred over the sores on her heart. The only external trace that the tragedy left was the bandage of black gauze that she put on her burned hand and that she wore until her death.
Arcadio gave a rare display of generosity by decreeing official mourning for Pietro Crespi. úrsula interpreted it as the return of the strayed lamb. But she was mistaken. She had lost Arcadio, not when he had put on his military uniform, but from the beginning. She thought she had raised him as a son, as she had raised Rebeca, with no privileges or discrimination. Nevertheless, Arcadio was a solitary and frightened child during the insomnia plague, in the midst of úrsula's utilitarian fervor, during the delirium of José Arcadio Buendía, the hermetism of Aureliano, and the mortal rivalry between Amaranta and Rebeca. Aureliano had taught him to read and write, thinking about other things, as he would have done with a stranger. He gave him his clothing so that Visitación could take it in when it was ready to be thrown away. Arcadio suffered from shoes that were too large, from his patched pants, from his female buttocks. He never succeeded in communicating with anyone better than he did with Visitación andCataure in their language. Melquíades was the only one who really was concerned with him as he made him listen to his incomprehensible texts and gave him lessons in the art of daguerreotype. No one imagined how much he wept in secret and the desperation with which he tried to revive Melquíades with the useless study of his papers. The school, where they paid attention to him and respected him, and then power, with his endless decrees and his glorious uniform, freed him from the weight of an old bitterness. One night in Catarino's store someone dared tell him, "you don't deserve the last name you carry." Contrary to what everyone expected, Arcadio did not have him shot.
"To my great honor," he said, "I am not a Buendía."
Those who knew the secret of his parentage thought that the answer meant that he too was aware of it, but he had really never been. Pilar Ternera, his mother, who had made his blood boil in the darkroom, was as much an irresistible obsession for him as she had been first for José Arcadio and then for Aureliano. In spite of her having lost her charms and the splendor of her laugh, he sought her out and found her by the trail of her smell of smoke. A short time before the war, one noon when she was later than usual in coming for her younger son at school, Arcadio was waiting for her in the room where he was accustomed to take his siesta and where he later set up the stocks. While the child played in the courtyard, he waited in his hammock, trembling with anxiety, knowing that Pillar Ternera would have to pass through there. She arrived. Arcadio grabbed her by the wrist and tried to pull her into the hammock. "I can't, I can't," Pilar Ternera said in horror. "You can't imagine how much I would like to make youhappy, but as God is my witness I can't." Arcadio took her by the waist with his tremendous hereditary strength and he felt the world disappear with the contact of her skin. "Don't play the saint," he said. "After all, everybody knows that you're a whore." Pilar overcame the disgust that her miserable fate inspired in her.
"The children will find out," she murmured. "It will be better if you leave the bar off the door tonight."

乌苏娜吩咐把灵枢放在她的家里，尼康诺神父既反对为自杀者举行宗教仪式，也反对把人埋在圣地。乌苏娜跟神父争论起来。“这个人成了圣徒，”她说。“这是怎么一回事，你我都不了解。不管你想咋办，我都要把他埋在梅尔加德斯旁边。”举行了隆重的葬礼之后，在全镇的人一致同意下，她就那样做了。阿玛兰塔没有走出卧室。她从自己的床铺上，听到了乌苏娜的号啕声、人们的脚步声和低低的谈话声，以及哭灵女人的数落声，然后是一片深沉的寂静，寂静中充满了踩烂的花朵的气味。在颇长一段时间里。阿玛兰塔每到晚上都还感到薰衣草的味儿，但她竭力不让自己精神错乱。乌苏娜不理睬她了。那天傍晚，阿玛兰塔走进厨房，把一只手放在炉灶的炭火上，过了一会儿，她感到的已经不只是疼痛，而是烧焦的肉发出的臭味了，这时，乌苏娜连眼睛都不扬一扬，一点也不怜悯女儿。这是对付良心不安的人最激烈的办法。一连几天，阿玛兰塔都在家中把手放在一只盛着蛋清的盆子里，的伤就逐渐痊愈了，而且在蛋清的良好作用下，她心灵的创伤也好了。这场悲剧留下的唯一痕迹，是缠在她那的伤的手上的黑色绷带，她至死都是把它缠在手上的。
阿卡蒂奥表现了意外的宽厚态度，发布了正式哀悼皮埃特罗·克列斯比的命令。乌苏娜认为这是浪子回头的举动，但她想错了。她失去了他，根本不是从他穿上军服时开始的，而是老早开始的，她认为，她把他当做自己的孙子抚养成人，就象养育雷贝卡一样，既没优待他，也没亏待他。然而，阿卡蒂奥却长成了个乖僻、胆怯的孩子，因为在他童年的时候，正好失眠症广泛流行，乌苏娜大兴土木，霍·阿·布恩蒂亚精神错乱，奥雷连诺遁居家门，阿玛兰塔和雷贝卡彼此仇视。奥雷连诺教他读书写字时，仿佛对待一个陌生人似的，他心中所想的完全是另一码事。他拿自己的衣服给阿卡蒂奥（让维希塔香加以修改），因为这些衣服准备扔掉了。阿卡蒂奥感到苦恼的是一双不合脚的大鞋、裤子上的补丁以及女人的屁股。他跟维希塔香和卡塔乌尔谈话时，多半是用他们的语言。唯一真正关心他的人是梅尔加德斯：这老头儿把令人不解的笔记念给他听，教他照相术。谁也没有猜到，他在大家面前如何掩饰自己的痛苦，如何哀悼老头儿的去世；他翻阅老头儿的笔记，拼命寻找使这吉卜赛人复活的办法，但是毫无结果。在学校里，他受到大家的尊敬；掌握市镇大权以后，他穿上神气的军服，发布严厉的命令，他那经常落落寡欢的感觉才消失了。有天晚上在卡塔林诺游艺场里，有人大胆地向他说：“你配不上你现在的这个姓。”出乎大家的预料，阿卡蒂奥没有枪毙这个鲁莽的人。
“我不是布恩蒂亚家的人，”他说，“那倒荣幸得很。”
了解他那出身秘密的人听了这个回答，以为他一切都明白了，其实他永远都不知道谁是他的父母。象霍·阿卡蒂奥和奥雷连诺一样，他对自己的母亲皮拉·苔列娜感到一种不可遏止的欲望：当她走进他正在修饰照相底版的暗室时，他那血管里的热血竟然沸腾起来。尽管皮拉·苔列娜已经失去魅力，已经没有朗朗的笑声，他还是寻烟的苦味找到她。战前不久，有一天中午，比往常稍迟一些，她到学校里去找自己的小儿子。阿卡蒂奥在房间里等候她——平常他都在这儿睡午觉，后来他命令把这儿变成把拘留室。孩子在院子里玩耍，他却躺在吊床上急躁得发颤，因他知道皮拉·苔列娜准会经过这个房间。她来了。阿卡蒂奥一把抓住她的手，试图把她拉上吊床。“我不能，我不能，”皮拉·苔列娜惊恐地说。“你不知道，我多想让你快活，可是上帝作证，我不能。”阿卡蒂奥用他祖传的膂力拦腰把她抱住，一接触她的身体，他的两眼都开始模糊了，“别装圣女啦，”他说。“大家都知道你是个婊子。”皮拉·苔列娜竭力忍受悲惨的命运在她身上引起的厌恶。
“孩子们会看见的，”她低声说。“今儿晚上你最好不要闩上房门。”